


A Saucer holds a Cup

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: American Civil War, F/M, Gen, Gift Giving, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 12:17:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7757560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What passes for romance from Byron Hale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Saucer holds a Cup

“My dove!”

“Byron, what are you about? I haven’t much time and it has been an unutterably horrid day,” Anne replied. 

She had chilblains on her right hand, a blistered heel and her back ached from the efforts she’d put into bathing and rebandaging Private Robinson, who was quite honestly the fattest soldier she’d ever seen. He’d looked so apologetic she hadn’t the heart to snipe about it, but she’d wanted to. At least Phinney hadn’t been about to gloat or give an insipid and insincere compliment.

“I must insist, darling Nan, that you sit down, if only for a quarter-hour,” Byron said. He was wearing fresh linen and had brushed his coat, which was what generally passed for courtship between them.

“You must insist? Truly—that is the tack you wish to take with me?” she snapped. He was not the true object of her wrath but he allowed her to make remarks she otherwise couldn’t and was mollified by the mildest of embraces, even a peck to the cheek.

“I mean to say, please, please do me the honor of joining me—I have a surprise for you if you would only come along and sit down a little while. You have been working too hard, I must speak with Nurse Phinney about it,” he said, hoping to soothe her. 

She allowed herself to be soothed as it had been and would likely continue to be a very trying day. She put her hand on his forearm and he guided her a few steps to a table with two worn, velvet armchairs flanking it. There was a little embroidered cloth on the table itself and to very her great delight, a complete Wedgewood tea-set in the blue of an English July sky, the white scrolls and ribbons daintily encircling each cup, the tea-pot round-bellied, its spout unchipped. Every saucer was a perfect circle, cradling its cup carefully and she saw a little plate of cakes to the side as well.

“Byron! What is this?” she exclaimed and sat heavily in the chair he drew back for her. The tea set was so pretty she wished she were wearing anything other than her soiled apron over a drab woolen dress, wished she’d dressed her hair more carefully and tied a bright ribbon at her throat.

“It’s tea, a proper tea or as close as I could come because, you naughty girl, you never said, it’s your birthday!” he announced proudly. She looked at him suspiciously and he laughed a little uncertainly.

“How did you--” she began but she was distracted a little by the fragrance of real China tea, not one of the herbal concoctions Mary Phinney tried to pass off as an acceptable alternative. Byron seized his chance.

“I have my ways, as you know, and how could I not make sure my darling girl’s birthday was observed in a way that befits her?”

“But how—and tea-cakes as well! Oh! And is that lump sugar?” 

Anne felt that even the illustrious Florence Nightingale herself would understand how her protégé, experienced in and unperturbed by the most gruesome of injuries and their equivalently disgusting treatments, could find herself made dizzy by a proper English tea and a proper English tea-set. There was no clotted cream or lemon curd, but she could do without and still feel herself at home, a lady in a sitting room at afternoon tea—perfection!

“Yes, and it took some doing to get! Shall I pour out?” Byron said.

“No, you’ll make a mess and you don’t know the correct way, and, you’re going to drink it too? You like coffee—and, and you haven’t any respect for it, you dumped all the tea in the harbor!”

“Well, not personally, Anne. I thought I would join you, if you’d have me, and it would be a little treat for you, would suit you, my English rose,” Byron managed. 

She preened a bit at his sweet words, his wheedling, plaintive tone overlaying the little hint of exasperation he’d begun with. She poured out the tea and inhaled the steam; it was beautifully brewed and smelled of home, civilization, everything she’d ever missed about England. She added milk from the dear little blue jug and then, indulgently, a lump of sugar in both cups. Byron had a sweet tooth and she would have the next cup with only the milk; her mother had always let her add sugar to her cup on her birthday. She hadn’t thought she’d be able to this year.

She nudged the cup and saucer towards Byron, then started sipping hers. A great ease took her, making her sore fingers and aching back recede, taking her away, just for a little while, from the grim, dirty place that Mansion House so often was. She’d drunk half the cup and had started to reach for a golden tea-cake when it occurred to her there was no possible way Byron had either envisioned or executed this seemingly impromptu tea-party. At least, not without a great deal of help and diplomatic nudging towards the plan. And in fact, she admitted sourly, she knew right away who must be responsible, who managed the hospital’s inventory and acquisitions, whose fine hands had beaten and stirred the batter for the delicate cakes. It was clearly Nurse Mary’s work and Anne hadn’t the faintest idea why the woman would want to help celebrate Anne’s birthday or even assist Byron. She bit into the cake and savored the butter, some mild citrus flavor imparted by lemon verbena in the absence of actual lemons, before she began to talk again.

“Why did she arrange all this, Byron? Have you joined forces with that, that duplicitous Baroness Mary von Gobbledygook? How could you? And on my birthday!”

Byron sputtered. “Anne darling, whatever do you mean? I, and I alone am responsible for this gift!”

“Do you think me a fool then? For I know you, Byron Frederick Boethius Hale, and I know what you are capable of,” Anne replied.

The use of his full Christian name and Anne’s scathing tone of voice deflated Byron entirely. Anne thought perhaps she had been too hard on him and then remembered Mary Phinney’s lily-white hands (which she admitted to herself was an exaggeration-- the woman’s hands were as callused as Anne’s own by now, nails cut short, free of any rings or bracelets for adornment), Mary’s labor preparing her birthday tea and how Byron must have conspired with her.

“Fine. You will have your own way. Nurse Mary came to me, said she’d found this tea-set, complete, not a piece missing or broken, and wouldn’t you be the one person at Mansion House to truly appreciate it—and a good tea served in it. She offered, Anne—what could I say? I wanted something nice, something fine for you, and this blasted place doesn’t allow much,” Byron admitted.

“What about your mother’s ring? The one you are always promising me? I would have liked that,” Anne declared.

“Well, my mother likes that ring herself and on her own finger! I can’t exactly demand it of her, pet. And then, Nurse Mary offered to arrange it all, this little tea-party. I had to give her a little money so she could get the tea but she said there was no point if I served you rosehip or chamomile and that’s all she had on hand. And I knew myself you would not have wanted more coffee. And there’s an end to it,” he said and morosely chewed the corner of a tea-cake. The crumbs disappeared in his beard, the same golden-brown color for both.

Anne thought it over. One good deed, one kind act would not upset the balance between them, the enmity that sustained her through long, empty nights when Byron snored and she wondered if he ever would marry her, if she would have to find another war when this one ended to fill her days. And Byron had shown he knew her enough, better than most; he was sentimental but not romantic and she’d understood that since he first importuned her and within moments had a hand up her skirts. She might as well accept that for once, on her thirty-third birthday in the middle of a dreadful War whose outcome interested her not at all, she was being given a little piece of home, of beauty and simplicity, a gentle affectionate gift of her past in her present. She sipped her tea meditatively and was startled when Byron thrust a hand onto the table top; he was clutching a handful of silk ribbons, scarlet and apricot and leaf-green.

“And there are these, they’re the prettiest ones I could find. Alexandria’s remaining emporium is rather lacking, but I thought still, you might like them,” he explained. 

She laid her hand over his and he relaxed, let her take the ribbons and stroke the curve between his thumb and forefinger, so flexible and clever, so important to a surgeon and beneficial to a lover. These alone would have been what she would have had, likely in the paper wrapping and string the clerk had given him, perhaps before she fell asleep tonight or in the morning, belatedly, with Byron’s awkward apology mixed in with an embrace she would have had to muster a sleepy response to. He’d still bought them, even with Mary Phinney’s offer of help, and she smiled at him, a real smile, the rare one he always hoped to see.

“Thank you, Byron. I do. You were quite thoughtful and I shall treasure them. And perhaps there is one you like best, that you would like me to wear for you tonight… I’d give it place of pride, I needn’t wear anything to compete with it,” she said, smirking a little. She had to wait a moment of two, as she’d expected, for him to grasp the possibilities in what she’d said and she passed the time drinking her tea; it was a fine cup, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I prompted myself with the title to this, from Emily Dickinson. I had the idea Mary would find a complete set of Wedgewood and understand that Anne Hastings is the one person at Mansion House who would truly appreciate it, but she can't approach her directly because Anne's second career is loathing Mary. But Anne has a birthday and a boyfriend who is sort of a clumsy dud.
> 
> The lump sugar is a little chronologically off, I admit, but not terrifically so. Wedgewood was in production since the 18th century.
> 
> Enjoy this with a cup of your favorite tea-- iced or hot!


End file.
